


Tipping The Scales

by captainbobbin



Series: Tipping The Scales [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Eventual romance within the series, Fantasy Violence, First of a series, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mysterious Main Character that will be revealed more, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 05:32:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11284713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainbobbin/pseuds/captainbobbin
Summary: Erandur knows full well that he cannot take on Vaermina on his own.Luckily for him, a mysterious traveller full of secrets comes along and is more than happy to help.  The poor priest can't help but be intrigued by the enigmatic warrior.





	Tipping The Scales

**Author's Note:**

> So my character here is not Dragonborn, just an average denizen of Skyrim. His armor is not one you'd find in game, and you'll find out why that is next chapter - it is made of dwarven metal, but not the typical dwarven design. More information on him, including what he looks like underneath his armour, will be in the upcoming chapters. 
> 
> Elvish Translations:  
> Sera - a term of respect, like 'Sir/Madam'. Erandur will call you this in-game.  
> Serjo - similar to Sera, but an even higher term of respect, like 'my lord/my lady'  
> Nagoy! - Go die!  
> Mucroth-Mori - Evil witch  
> B'vek - A shout of exclamation. Kinda like 'Ack!'
> 
> A massive thank you to my better half John and to my friends a-virtuous-pyromaniac and longlivethereaper for proofreading.  
> I'd really appreciate some feedback, and I hope you enjoy reading!

 

* * *

 

_Dearest Lady Mara, Lady of my heart....I ask this of you, in your generosity. Please, guide me. Lend me your strength in defeating the evil that plagues this town. Guide me in destroying the Skull. Provide with me the power I need to defend goodness, dearest Divine. Protect me, my Lady. Come to me, Mara, for without you, I might forget the ways of our fathers, and preening by the light of latest fashion, my words might tremble like the thin reeds of novelty in the tempest of enthusiasms. Protect me and give me strength, kind Lady. Please...._

 

* * *

 

 

He honestly hadn’t expected anyone to come forward and come to his aid.

Stood among a handful of the betrayed people of Dawnstar, the crowd restless and rowdy as he swore he would fix things, on his life. Dread slammed into the pit of his gut as he vowed to give the townsfolk salvation from the nightmares. He’d have to go back. Alone. One old priest against a temple of a Daedra, attackers and her followers, a Daedra he betrayed. He lied to them, saying the dreams are only dreams, that it was perfectly normal. He could hear the falseness in his own voice. As the words left his mouth, Erandurs' grey skin felt unbearably cold and his throat tightened.

He had been working towards this for years; he had to go. It was fate, or destiny, or something. He had to right the almighty wrong that had weighed him down for so long.  He had abandoned so many of his friends out of fear, but he had to go back and destroy the Skull to free them, somehow, some way.

Even if it meant killing them, he supposed. He had thought long and hard on it, in the years, decades, leading up to this moment. The longer he waited to return, the more addled his once-friends minds would become. It had been so long now that it would be unlikely a lot of them would even rouse. At least then he could sneak in and destroy the Skull with little interference, but even so, the risk was too great. He needed someone to watch his back. Someone trustworthy. Someone strong and dependable. He could not do this alone.

Erandur sighed as none of the townsfolk stepped forward. If he was meant to do this alone, so be it. It would be unfair of him to endanger one of the townsfolk plagued by a problem that he himself had caused, and if one were to die then his conscience would grow even heavier.

  
As he turned towards the door to the inn, someone unfamiliar stood there, isolated among the rabble.

Tall, broad, and clad head to toe in an armour Erandur had never seen before. Thick, brutish horns protruded from the back of the helmets' bronze-coloured skull. The sloping helm was coated in vicious ridges and decorated with a carving on an exaggerated jawbone complete with curved metal fangs and piercing metal eyes. The armour and helm alike gleamed somewhere between copper and gold in the low firelight of the Windpeak Inn. A curved mace laid peacefully on his belt, yet he bore no shield or other form of weapon. A battle mage or paladin of some sort like himself, perhaps? The man seemed to be miles broader than the elf, yet he could not have been more than a few inches taller. He was silent, studying with hidden eyes, with his head cocked very slightly to the side, watching.

Bathed in an almost ethereal light, as if Divine-sent.

 

He’d do.

 

Erandur swallowed, and ran his hand over his own weapon and knapsack, avoiding looking at the man any longer. He had some meagre supplies and enough rations to last a good few days trek, at least for himself, along with a sparse few potions in case the situation grew dire. It was now or never.

Before he had chance to steel himself and look up in the direction of the armoured man again, he had approached, waiting patiently by his side.

“Do you need some assistance, friend?”

Erandur had expected the voice to be low and intensely gravelly to suit the strangers' incredible bulk, but instead he spoke softly, with gentle concern. It was not high-pitched or boy like, but certainly gentler than he had anticipated. Softer than most Nords in the area.

“I'm afraid I have little to pay for your service, _sera_.”

“I’m not offering my help for pay. I’m offering my help because you look like you need it.”

Erandur scanned the helm for an opening, a glimpse of the man's real eyes behind the carved ones on the metal. On finding nothing, he gave a polite smile. "Blessings upon you. My Lady Mara will be very pleased. Come, please, we should make haste. I shall explain once we get to Nightcaller Temple, it is only a short walk."

 

 

As they stepped out of the inn, a dumpy grey horse whinnied at the warrior from the pen outside; it was a horse Erandur was unfamiliar with, and the warrior made a gentle clicking noise with his tongue to calm the creature, before he nodded towards Erandur to continue.

The man followed diligently, silently, through the heavy snowfall. He was at all times only a few footfalls behind the Dunmer. Once they had a decent amount of distance between themselves and any prying ears of Dawnstar, Erandur waited a moment and let the warrior catch up to him.

"The people of Dawnstar are plagued with horrific nightmares." Erandur explained over the bitter wind. The warrior gave a nod as they fell into stride with one another. "They are in incredible danger. Within the temple lies something very evil and I will need your assistance in cleansing the area."

"Draugur?"  Erandur saw the warrior tilt his head in his peripheral vision.

"No, something worse, I'm afraid. The dreams are manifestations created by a Daedric Lord. Vaermina. She feasts on innocent people's memories and leaves nightmares in her wake, like a cough marks a serious illness. If I let her continue this, she will cause harm to the people of Dawnstar permanently." Erandur pulled his robes around him a little more to shut out the cold of the snow and the dread of impending danger.

"Vaermina." A clipped growl echoed out of the warriors' bronze helm, and Erandur was positive the man was frowning. "Can we destroy her fully?"

"Perhaps not. The Daedra are tricky and I doubt two mortal men can kill one. But if we can cease her damaging the town, that must count for something. I won't see these people suffer."

The warrior slid in the snow slightly but seemed unfazed by the sheer cold. "What does she do with memories? Eats them?"

"Who knows?" Erandur shivered and spotted the stone tower through the icy fog. "Perhaps she puts them on display in her nightmare realm, like sick pieces of art. Whatever she does with them, she is not benevolent or kind in any form. I'm just glad to finally be able to take some action; simply watching these people suffer has been difficult."

The armour-clad man said nothing and they approached the tower, simply watching the priest.

Erandur cleared his throat, peering up and squinting through the snow. "The people of Dawnstar call this place the Tower Of The Dawn. I know little about it," Erandur half-lied, "besides the fact it was abandoned even before Vaermina decided to take residence and made it into her temple and now it has been abandoned again. Funny, isn't it? A ruin within a ruin."

A soft puff of vapour and a low noise came from within the carved helmet, and Erandur assumed the man had smiled a little. Erandur swallowed. Perhaps he was stalling, making jokes while stood outside the tower. There was no time like the present.

"Before we enter, I should warn you." The taller man turned and looked down on him a little. "...Years ago a raid of orc warriors stormed this place, affected by the same nightmares the people of Dawnstar suffer today. The priests of Vaermina, they...released a Miasma, a defence mechanism of sorts. It put everyone inside to sleep. Once we go into the main part of the Temple, the Miasma will possibly dissipate, and they will reawaken, both orcs and priests."

"This Miasma...is it dangerous to us?"

"No, not to us. It slows the aging process, but those already afflicted with it, their minds will be warped. They have been sealed here for many years, those that _do_ awaken will likely be angry and mindless and trying to kill us."

"No wonder you took my assistance so gladly."

Erandur couldn't help but crack into a slight smile, the man's tone almost jovial. He shook himself a little and unlocked the door. "Come along, we should hurry."

The warrior followed him inside and gave an exaggerated shudder, spilling the snow from his helm and shoulders onto the floor. The entryway was littered with smashed pews and rubble, but as Erandur lit the torches lining the walls with his magicka, he managed to turn and get a good look at the warrior again.

The man was certainly a few inches taller than him and Erandur had honestly never seen armour similar in any way to the mans', despite being on speaking terms with Rustleif, Dawnguards blacksmith. It shone with a brassy-gold colour in the low light, all intricate carvings and sharp plates. The face was sloped into a menacing snarl and the horns extending from the skull were thicker than his wrist and bleached the colour of bone. Erandur tilted his head. He had seen scraps of Dwemer metal before which was the closest thing he could think of but the only similarity was the colour, the carvings and shapes were entirely individual. A shock of vivid electric-blue was wrapped around the man's hips just above the belt he kept his mace on. Some animal hide, perhaps? Erandur didn't look too hard. The mace itself matched the armour, a vivid brassy colour with jutting angular edges. Between the weapon, the man's build and his free hand, Erandur bet the paladin could certainly do some damaged, and for the first time in quite some time, he felt a touch of relief wash over him.

He watched in silence as the warrior approached his shrine to Mara.

"I, ah, I made a small shrine to Lady Mara here. I hoped that She would give me guidance."

"Has She?" The warrior bent a little to peer at the shrine, a hand slowly moving to touch. Erandur nearly yelped at him to back away, protective of his Lady's precious shrine, yet as a finger gently traced the carvings of the shrine, he said nothing. The man's bronze-clad fingers were ghost-like, barely touching the surface of the metallic model, but he seemed intrigued.  The flickering of candles surrounded him in a halo of reflected gold.

"She has. I suppose I should properly introduce myself, since I haven't so far. My name is Erandur, Priest of Mara."

The man stood up straight and turned to look Erandur straight-on. The carved eyes of the helm pierced into the Dunmer. In a flat, low tone, the paladin said his name.

"....Puddles."

"....' _Puddles_ '?" Erandur raised an eyebrow, the urge to laugh bubbling hard into the back of his throat. He immediately pressed his lips together in an effort to quell it.

"Puddles." The warrior grunted. "My name. Don't you dare laugh."

"I'm not." Erandur lied and bit into his lip, letting out a short snort and stiflling a cackle as he turned away. Puddles let out an offended huff behind him and shook his head a little.  "Are you serious? _'Puddles'_?"

"I'm always serious." He huffed again a little, but unbeknownst to Erandur the warrior was smiling slightly beneath the helmet. He circled around the vestibule, coming to face a carving of Vaemina that lined the back wall.

Erandur's grin faded as he looked up at the carving which blocking the entryway to the heart of the tower. They stood silently for a moment, the bleakness of the situation dwarfing their previously light tone.

"Are you ready to proceed?"

He nodded. "Let's go, Erandur."

"Alright, give me a moment." A burst of flame into the carving later and it faded into nothingness, the barrier dispelled. Erandur stepped through, and Puddles followed him, silently glancing at where the barrier once was. "Come along, let me show you where the nightmares stem from."

The armoured man took a few clunky steps to catch up, and Erandur watched as he peered down into the belly of the tower. The twin glistening shields sat below them, protecting the heart of the tower against intruders. Puddles gave what sounded like a low whistle, but it was muffled by his helm and came out more like a breathy 'whoooo'. Erandur nodded, stepping up next to him and looking down, a grey hand gripping the bars of the window.

"Behold, the Skull of Corruption," he sneered down at the shields, almost mocking them. "The source of all of Dawnstars woes. We have to get to that inner sanctum and destroy it. Come on."

Erandur was somewhat swifter than he looked and Puddles trotted along after him. A purpling mist bathed the two of them as they descended the stairs and a low grumble emerged from Puddles' throat.

" _Sera?"_ Erandur questioned, glancing back.

"Someone's here."

As they approached the base of the stairs, two large orcs shakily stood. One promptly leant against the wall and evacuated the contents of his stomach in the corner while the other sleepily blinked before yelling wildly and charging at the pair with a short sword drawn in his burly hand and a vacant look in his deranged eyes. The orc blinked and it was almost like some dim light came on in his brain as suddenly he was swinging wildly.

Erandur gripped his mace tight as the ferocious orc approached, ready, hardening his stance and feeling magicka tingle in his fingers.

Puddles took one broad step forward and there was a flash of his mace.

 The Orcs head toppled from his shoulders meatily and the warriors gold-bronze armour was splattered with crimson. A low snarl slid from the helm and with a quick flourish the other Orcs head was smashed against the brick wall, skull entirely crushed beneath the blades of Puddles' mace. More blood painted the wall and spattered against Puddles' breastplate.

Erandur watched silently as the taller man brushed a chunk of tattered hair and bone from the mace and flicked away the excess blood. He hadn't expected the warrior to leap in so swiftly. The helm tilted towards him slightly.

"Are you hurt?"

Erandur hadn't budged an inch. "I'm fine. Lets continue."

As Puddles started to walk forward, mace still in hand, Erandur let out a long breath. This, this was good. Puddles could fend for himself and those orcs were _nothing_ and he had even asked if he was alright afterwards. This was a warrior he could trust. Perhaps this entire endeavour would go smoother than he anticipated.

He bit the inside of his lip to ground himself in the moment, as they came to a magical barrier. The man beside him let out a little 'Hmph'. Erandur reciprocated the noise.

"Gah. Damn it. Damn priests must have put this barrier up when the Miasma was activated....I wonder...." Erandur tiled his head, glancing up at the stoic traveller next to him for a split second. He distantly remembered a book on potions that were especially useful in times like this; it would have to be in the Temple somewhere. "....There could be a way past, but I'll have to check their library to confirm it is possible. I have a key."

Puddles merely looked at him for a long moment, thinking, before giving an assuring nod and replying, "Lead on."

Erandur breathed out a silent sigh of relief through his nose before leading the way back up the stairs. He was glad that Puddles had not asked any questions. Guilt settled like a wet stone within his stomach. This man was trusting him, protecting him. Eventually, he would have to tell him the truth, especially if more barriers like this were in the way. Hell, he hadn't even thought about how to dispel the barriers around the Skull itself more than just using extensive prayer. He gritted his teeth a little. If they were going to get anywhere, Puddles would eventually have to be told everything.

"It's just here," Erandur muttered as he wrestled the key from his belt and slid it into the rusted lock of the library door. "But be careful, more of the awakened will lie within."

Puddles said nothing as the door was opened and they stalked silently through the cobbled corridor. The violet fumes drifted lazily in front of them, and the sounds of soft grunts and groans echoed through. The duo paused, and Puddles peered around the corner into the depths of the library; the ground dipped into a lower floor yet on the central platform of the library laid stairs to a slightly higher raised area. A an orc and a follower of Vaermina  were on the central platform and were forcing themselves to stand, mouths foaming with a purplish froth and eyes rolling slightly. The Miasma was unkind.

Puddles moved a hand behind him, stilling Erandurs movements. He tilted his head back slightly and quietly muttered, "Stay back," before charging out onto the innermost platform.

The Daedric devotee bellowed and swung for the paladin with his bare hands, stubby fingers arced like claws. The orc scrambled for his axe and cleaved the air clumsily. Puddles ploughed into the devotee, lifting him clean onto his shoulder before swinging and slamming the dazed Altmer hard onto the edge of the platform, the elf's spine snapping audibly over Puddles low snarls.

 Puddles worked fast, spinning to face the impeding orc; their weapons clashed, the bronze mace defending against a hard cleave downwards from the brutes' axe. Puddles shoved the beast back hard, rearing back ready to swing, before a burst of fire shot past. The ball of flame shot straight into the orcs face, his skin sizzling immediately at the contact. He flailed, yelled, and promptly slipped over; his head cracked on the corner of the staircase leading to the highest platform, before he rolled off of the platform entirely, landing cleanly on his skull. The crack of his neck snapping and skull hitting the stonework echoed throughout the library. Puddles leaned over the edge slightly, peering down at the bodies of their two attackers. Positive they were dead, he peered back towards the entry way.

Erandur leant against the wall a little, dusting his hands. A few shimmering sparks flew from them, the residue of his magic.

"You said "stay back"." he shrugged. "I stayed back. Didn't mean I couldn't join in with the fight."

Erandur was surprised when Puddles' body language showed him relaxing a little, looking more open. He was even more surprised when the warrior admitted "...I underestimated you."

"Perhaps it's best that you don't do that again." Erandur smiled warmly and approached the Puddles,  nudging him a little with his elbow as he passed. "Come along, the sooner we find the book I need, the sooner we can cleanse this miserable place."

Erandur headed down the stairs to the lowest part of the library, glancing around. Everything was in ruin, books burned, cases toppled over and splintered, stonework corroding. He frowned. So much potential knowledge squandered for Vaermina's cause.  "This library used to be filled with volumes of incredible lore and magical tomes. Look at it, what a ruin. Everything is burned. Let's just hope the tome we need is still here, somewhere."

Puddles followed him, his footfalls the only noise he made.

The Dunmer jolted as he stepped into the central part of the library, the groans of another awakening duo of attackers startling him. " _B'vek!"_ He grabbed his mace swiftly and hastily cleaved into the orcs skull, forcing him back down, as Puddles rushed to his side and gave the Bosmer devotee a sharp kick between the eyes with his metal-capped boots. He gave the elf's skull a quick stamp to ensure the Daedric follower would not disturb them again.

"Damn priest, you scared me." he muttered, shaking his head and beginning to peer into the ruined bookshelves. "Alright, what does the book we need look like?"

"A big, thick book. It's a book on alchemical recipes, it's called 'The Dreamstride'. The cover should have a design on it that looks like the carvings of Vaermina that we keep seeing on the walls. It should be here somewhere. I'll look around down here; perhaps you should head upwards and search for the book up there."

Erandur could see Puddles turn and look at him in the gap of his peripheral vision between the crease of his hood and fallen hair. "Do you really think it's a good idea for me to go higher up? I must weigh a few tonnes in this armour; if I fall on you, I'll kill you."

"I'm wearing a robe." He deadpanned in return, pausing in his search to glance at the warrior. "Do you really want to look up at an old priest in a robe? You're going to see enough terrifying things in this place, let's not add to that list."

Puddles shoulders shook violently, and for a second Erandur was concerned he'd been too sassy towards the man, that he'd lash out and snarl at him, attack him maybe. When a long hissing laugh erupted from his helm and Puddles moved towards the stairway upwards, shaking his head jovially, Erandur let out a soft laugh of relief. What an odd companion he had found in the mysterious man.

The soft clatter of Puddle' movements echoed on the higher tier of the library as Erandur rummaged through splintering shelves. Footsteps echoed quietly for a moment before a stark shout rang out.

" _Nagoy_!"    

There was a shrill screech as Erandur darted out from the under-library to see Puddles wrestle with another acolyte. She was wild, stabbing at the warrior with a dagger. Puddles showed no mercy as he forcibly slammed her into one of the crumbling shelves and practically gutted her with one of the jagged edges on his mace. He took a long, stumbling step back once she was still, hand automatically going to cradle at his neck. A driblet of blood spilled between his fingers.

"Are you alright, _Sera_?" Erandur called up to him, anxious.  

" _Mucroth-Mori_." He snarled a little, the hand pressed to his neck beginning to glow a little. So he _was_ a healer. Erandur watched carefully, mind working overtime. Yes, he was wounded but that was not what concerned him. Puddles was speaking words of Aldmeri, the elven language of the Altmer. Yet he was far bigger and broader than any elf he had ever seen, even the tall Altmer. Erandurs curiosity buzzed in the back of his skull, but he shook his head a little

"Do you need my assistance?"

"No, no." Puddles shook his helmeted head. He adjusted his armour slightly around his neck. Erandur couldn't even see any kind of gap in the metal, let alone one a crazed devotee would have been able to hurt him through. "Let's just keep looking for that book."

Erandur nodded as Puddles turned away and continued to search. He swallowed before continuing his own search. What kind of man had he got himself entangled with? He was an enigma, brutal and callous to his enemies yet showing nothing but kindness to the priest. Erandur swallowed again at the thought of the man reacting if... _when_ he found out the truth. They worked in silence for some time, rummaging around the library, until Puddles called out to him.

"I think I may have it."

"Oh?" They met on the stairs, Puddles stood over the priest, several steps up. Puddles held out the book; slightly damaged, but intact.

"Yes, that's the one! I-" Erandur reached for it, but it was promptly pulled away from his hands. The expressionless mask stared down at him, and Puddles imposing size loomed over Erandur.

"First. I have questions."

Erandurs heart sunk. He gave a somewhat meek nod and took a few steps back, feeling physically tiny infront of the man. "Anything you ask. I will answer truthfully. I ...have nothing to hide. Not anymore, not from you."

"You have the key to this place. And the library key. You knew how to enter past that statue, and you knew to find this book." Puddles jostled the book in his hand, gesturing to it. "How? How do you know so much about this place? It's like you've-"

"I have." Erandur interrupted, looking away. "I have been here before. I...I was previously one of these acolytes. I worshipped Vaermina alongside them. They drew me in to this cult when I was a child. I fled when the orcs attacked, I was young, and ever since I have given my life to Mara to seek forgiveness. I live in regret. Please, believe me when I say that life is far behind me now. I lament every waking moment of it. I want to cleanse this place and forget all about the horrors performed here. By Her benevolence, I will right my wrongs. I'm a man of love, a man of Mara. It has been so very long. A lifetime. A lifetime of regret and fear. I want this place cleansed and free of evil and darkness. I want this place to feel Maras' benevolence." Erandur gazed into the unreadable mask, and for a split second was positive he saw a golden glint of eyes within miniscule slits he had not noticed before.

Puddles held the book out to him. Erandur took it, holding it to his chest a little. The armoured creature moved down the stairs to his side.

"I know what it is like, being born into something that you are not sure of, where you feel pressured into being something you know isn't right for you. I... believe you, Erandur. Every word." One of his hands came up, hovered awkwardly, and then came down on Erandurs' shoulder as a gesture of trust. It was strange, like Puddles did not know how to act around other people properly.

"Thank you. I swear, I won't let you down, my friend...this place will be safe once more." He negated any thoughts of probing into his companions' past, giving him a soft but genuine smile.

He took a slight step back and began to look over The Dreamstride, flicking through the pages. "Come, let's find a way through that barrier. Let me see... Mara be praised, there's a way through. We'll need a potion called Vaerminas Torpor. It's a potion that should let the drinker experience an ability the priests here call 'The Dreamstride' and should allow us to travel distances in the real world while dreaming. "

"That's rather incredible."

"It is!" Erandur couldn't help but smile. "Alchemy and Divine blessings mixed into a drinkable liquid. I hope our run of good fortune will continue and we can find a specimen of it here. However, there will be an issue."

"An issue?"

Erandur turned, heading up towards the door and signalled Puddles to follow. "I've never seen the potion in action, and I'm sworn to Mara, I am her priest. I doubt it would have any effect on me, or it could potentially even have a negative effect. You are unaffiliated with both Divine and Daedra....aren't you?"

Puddles gave a nonchalant shrug. "I have prayed before to a Divine, but I would not say I am a religious person."

"That'll do. You'll have to drink the Torpor, if we find it, and dispel the barrier. This way is an old laboratory, I think; there should be a sample there."

 

As they stepped into the murk of the library, several more of the awakened leapt for them, and with a few well-placed swings of maces and bursts of magic, their bodies lay crumpled in the corner. As soon as the air was still, something glinting caught Puddles' eye.

"Alright. Now that's over, let's look for Vaerminas Torpor."

"I will bet you twenty septims that it's that potion, right there." Puddles nodded towards the twinkling bottle, a long yet small, slender bottle with crimson contents.

Erandur looked over and raised an eyebrow. "....I'll take that bet."

Puddles moved over and grabbed the bottle, looked at the label for a moment, then passed it to the priest.

Erandur shook it a little, the liquid-smoke content swirling within, before he read the label aloud. "...Vaerminas Torpor. Yep."

"Hah! Pay up." Puddles was grinning beneath the mask.

"Humph. I shall once this business is all done with. I have to admit, I'm relieved it's here. The rest of this place certainly is ransacked, it's a miracle its intact."

"So what next?"

"Next, well, you drink.  You will have to guide us from here. Drink it, all of it, dispel the barrier, then we destroy the Skull. Dawnstars nightmares can finally end. You'll relive someones memories, you won't quite be yourself, but it's alright. It's the only way we can do this." Erandur passed the bottle back into Puddles' hands. He pulled the cork free and tossed it aside.

For a moment he stared down into the depths of the long bottle. He looked up at Erandur. There was a soft edge of vulnerability in the warriors voice. "....You will look after me while I sleep, won't you?"

Erandur blinked for a moment, surprised. Despite being unable to see his face, Erandur could tell the taller man looked sheepish. His body language turned inwards and he went from looking at Erandur in the face to back down into the bottle, shoulders drawing up.

"I swear," Erandur croaked out, suddenly feeling guilty. "If anything strange happens or I worry you've been in there too long, I'll wake you up. I promise, Puddles."

The stoic helmet nodded before Puddles turned away a little, leaving the Dunmer in his almost non-existent peripherals. He unclasped a hinge at the edge of his helmet, before opening it a fraction of an inch and tipping the contents of the bottle inside. Erandur didn't see any of his face, but he blinked. For a split-second he was positive he saw the edge of a forked tongue flick. Impossible. He was tired. He shook his head quickly.

The drained bottle dropped to the floor and smashed into pieces. Puddles took an unsteady step, before taking two backwards, crumpling. Erandur caught his body and grunted, slowly lowering him to slide down against the wall. He had been right - he must have weighed several tonnes in that armour.

"Puddles?" He wheezed once the mace-wielder was sat hunched against the crumbed wall. He sat next to him uncertainly. "Puddles? Are you alright?"

No answer. The Torpor must have taken affect. It had been quicker than the priest had anticipated.

 

The hinge on the corner of his helm was still undone.

 

Erandur swallowed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Puddles hadn't felt himself drop the bottle, nor had he felt himself fall backwards; the moment the Torpor touched his lips he was gone, transported to a place of brightness and confusion.

 

"-Orcs have breached the Inner Sanctum, Brother Veren." A Nord to the right of him stated gravely. A Dunmer to his right heaved a deep sigh. They both wore the purple robes of Vaermina. As Puddles felt his head hang in something he recognised as hopelessness he saw that his body, too, was clad in the same robes.  He felt vulnerable, weak. Jolts of fear shook his hands.

"We have to hold," Muttered the Dunmer, Veren. "We can't allow the Skull to fall to them."

 

Puddles' body turned, twisting to look up at the Skull; it was still contained within its shield. He felt a perverse rush fill him and he hated it - he had spent years protecting this, protecting the Skull and the Temple, worshipping Vaermina. But that wasn't him, it was the person whose body he was trapped within.  A flicker of contempt welled within him - but Puddles could not tell whether it was inside of him or whoever's body he was in. The acolyte shuddered a little. Wasted years, appeasing the Daedra, and here he was, trapped and about to die. He was more scared than anything. Death was coming. He was going to die at the hands of barbarian orcs.

"But, Brother, there is little more than a handful of us left..." Thorek, the Nord, muttered, his tone hurt and lost. Yes, his brothers and sister were dying. And Vaermina was doing nothing to protect them. His hands shook more. The people he had grown up with were being slaughtered and he was next. He had given so much of himself to Vaermina and what had he gotten in return? He frowned, trying not to glare at the totem of her strength. The Skull stood and watched, as it always did and always had done. Silently.

"We have no choice, then. The Miasma _must_ be released. It's the only hope we have."

"The Miasma? But, Brother..." Thorek sounded hopeless.

"We have no alternative. It's the will of Vaermina."

He turned back to look at Veren. The older Dunmer had been like a brother to him for all of these years. How could Veren have been so sure? He couldn't hear Vaerminas voice, as he had done so many times in the past. She was silent, letting her followers perish. Veren turned to him, a stern look on his face.

"And what of you, Brother Casimir? Are you ready to serve Vaermina?"

His voice came out against his will. "I've made my peace," Casimir lied, the familiar voice echoing in Puddles mind, "I'm ready."

"Then its decided." Verens face turned into a grim scowl. A look of determination. Casimir tried to mimic it, but all he could feel was betrayal. Vaerminas lack of care for them, or his own thoughts of despair. He wasn't sure exactly what kind of betrayal he felt, but it was there. His gut felt like it was full of cold rocks. "Brother Casimir, you go and release the Miasma. You must do it, and let nothing stop you."

Casimir nodded, and Puddles was forced to nod too. He ran a hand down his face and somewhere, trapped within this devotees mind, Puddles noted the ashen grey tone of his skin. His heart sank, but he wasn't sure if it was his own heart or not.

Veren turned to Thorek. "Brother, we must stay. We will guard the Skull against anything that comes our way. We must."

Casimirs legs moved before Puddles could think, and suddenly he was running, sprinting, rushing past Veren and into the hallway. Casimir was quicker than Puddles could ever be, and his mind was frantic yet empty in his fear. His dead brethren and slaughtered orcs littered the floor and he leapt over them. Adrenaline pulsed in his ears. He rounded a corner to a room full of yells and swinging weapons; magic blasted around him as he slid through the legs of an orc and darted straight through to the exit opposite him, blunt teeth grit in determination. Nothing could stop him, nothing could stop him, he had to get to the chain - more were fighting in the next room on the stairs, and he shoved an orc bodily out of the way to dart past them, robes flapping around him. Nothing could stop him.

Rooms were full of his brothers and sisters bodies. He had to keep running but his feet were faltering, tripping over the arm of one of his comrades. He sprawled onto his knees for a moment and tears pricked his eyes. No, he couldn't mourn, couldn't stop, get up, get up you _fool!_ He spared a glance back at the Nord who he had tripped over as he clambered to his feet and kept running. Her ribcage had been crushed by the dead orc who lay a few feet away and her blonde hair was soaked with blood. His tears fell as he ran, head down. He couldn't stop to think.  He shoved his way through move battling orcs and his brethren. Someone called his name but he didn't stop, he couldn't stop.

Then there it was, the almighty chain. His legs felt like lead. His tears spilled over his cheeks and he roughly wiped them away, snarling at himself. He was so weak. He was so weak.

He gripped the chain with both grey hands and yanked it downwards. The screams of his siblings echoed in the halls. Fog started to leak through the walls. He caught a fraction of his own reflection in the ring of the chain as he pulled. Grey and red and black. Cheekbones and too thin. Bags under his eyes. Grey and grey and grey. His vision blurred through tears. Weak. He couldn't do this, not anymore.

"No......no......Damn it all, no!" He pressed his grey hands to his eyes in frustration. He snarled. He grit his teeth. And then he darted forwards out of the chamber and back the way he came, he was weak, his ears full of white noise and the thick hazy scent clouding his senses.

He was weak. He was weak.

 

* * *

 

 

And then, as quick as it came, the Torpor was gone again, and Puddles was stood in the chamber Casimir had tried to flee from. He felt dazed, confused, and incredibly tired.

"By Mara, you got through!" Suddenly Erandur was there, running to catch up with him.

_'He's a speedy thing. Quicker than me.'_ Rang in Puddles clouded head.  The Dunmer was smiling beyond the shimmering shield, and Puddles blinked. He wondered if Erandur had ever smiled so much before meeting him. Looking at him through the shield was like looking up from underwater and his head swam.

"After a while of being asleep, you vanished beside me. And now you're there! You materialised; I'd never seen anything like it. I can't imagine what it must have been like."

Puddles shook his head a little to clear it. He wanted to press his fingers to his eyes but settled for running his hand over his helmet.

The latch was clasped firmly.

After a moment to regain his thoughts, he turned and plucked the source of the shields from its pedestal, pocketing the soul gem for himself.

The shields around him melted and Erandur approached. "You did it! Now we can get the Skull."

 The priest lifted a grey hand to pat at Puddles' shoulder warmly. Grey and red and black. Puddles mouth moved without his consent and for a split second he was unsure as to whether he was still under the Torpors effect.

 "......Casimir...."

Erandurs hand froze in mid air and his smile vanished. His eyes flickered, searching for a gap in Puddles' helm. "...What...?"

"I thought....." Puddles head tilted, the hollow gaze of the helm piercing into the priest. He lifted his own hand for a moment, pausing in the air. With Erandurs crimson stare fixed on him, he pushed back the edge of the priests hood just a fraction to look at him better. "...I.... I thought I saw..."

Erandurs eyes darted away and his fists clenched. He swallowed thickly. His body language and demeanour changed from optimistic and joyful to guilt-ridden and withdrawn.

".....We should proceed. The Skull awaits."  Erandur said simply before he turned on his heel and walked towards the stairs downwards to the pit of the Temple.

Puddles followed silently.  The corridors all blurred together as Puddles' mind slowly cleared. He blinked as Erandur led the way down, his back to the warrior. It hurt, somehow. Even though they had just met, Puddles trusted the elf. To have hurt him, somehow, felt incredibly wrong. He watched in silence as Erandur stalled then stepped over the body of a blonde Nord woman, preserved by the Miasma.

"...Erandur."

The Dunmer turned to him as they reached a corner. He didn't look at Puddles, eyes downcast.

"...Something is wrong. Prepare your magic."

The Dunmer looked up at him, finally. "More devotees around?"

"...I think so. If I remember right."

Erandur frowned but nodded, slowly drawing his mace. Puddles stayed close as they rounded the corner and opened the wooden door to the Inner Sanctum.

Then, there they were.

"Wait...." Erandur paused as the glimmering sphere protecting the Skull came into view. Puddles let out a low growl. They were approaching, and the two devotees appeared from the shadows, weapons drawn.

"Veren, Thorek! You're alive!" Erandur gasped, and he'd be lying if he were to say he didn't hear Puddles quietly breathe out their names too.

Verens hackles raised, his expression sour. The years and Miasma mixed together had aged him terribly, lines around his eyes making his pupils seem to sink into his skull. "No thanks to you, Casimir."

"I no longer use that name." Erandur answered quickly. He half-glanced back to Puddles, a look of immense guilt sweeping over his features. "I'm Erandur now. Priest of Mara."

"You're a traitor. You left us to die and you ran like a coward after releasing the Miasma."

"I...I was scared." Erandur admitted, free hand swimming with magicka. Puddles rounded silently to Erandurs other side, where Thorek stood glaring. "I was young, and I didn't want to sleep, I didn't want to be taken under by the Miasma. I couldn't-"

"Enough! Enough of your lies! I can't let you destroy the Skull, Priest of Mara!" Veren spat the last few words.

"Then you leave me no choice!" The burst of thunder that he fired exploded like a ships cannon and the two were locked, spells flying. Thorek bellowed, joining in and firing beams of lighting at the priest.

Erandur was blinded, his skin burning as he fired his own beams back at his former friends. He yelled wordlessly, muscles threatening to seize up under the assault. Suddenly half of the forces acting on him was ripped away, and between the blinding streaks of pain he was positive he could spot his golden-armoured friend barrel Thorek to the floor. He raised his mace high above his head before he slammed the angled blades down, crushing the Nords skull. Then the mace was raised again. And again.

Erandur didn't let himself get distracted, hands busy blocking Verens forceful jolts with his own.

A particularly wicked bolt blasted his shoulder, yanking his arm back, but he took the opportunity to use the momentum to swing, darting forward and taking the bolts of electricity in his stride. His skin burned, his muscles ached, and his legs felt like dead weight under the strain of opposing magicka. And then the audible clang of metal meeting bone rang out as the edge of his mace connected sharply with Verens temple.

The magicka assaulting him was ripped away. The other Dunmer staggered, eyes dazed and forehead split open. His fingers flexed, sparks spitting from the tips as he swiftly tried to recollect himself, the starts of ineffective flames coming forth. Erandur couldn't help but scowl at his once-friend, raising his mace high, mimicking his friend across the room.

"H-How could you, Era-"

He slammed the mace down on the centre of Verens forehead.

 

Erandur panted, watching as the cultist fell to the floor. With a slight yank, he jerked his mace out of the gaping gash of the other Dunmers forehead. Blood gushed and splattered against the shins of his robes. Gulping in some long, painful breaths, he glanced over at Puddles.

Thoreks head was no longer existent, his head beaten to a pulp against the cobbled stone of the floor. Puddles knelt over him, catching his breath as his mace hung limply at his hand. His great helmet slowly moved to look at Erandur.

"....Are you hurt?"

"Physically, no." Erandur let out a mirthless laugh. It was all he could do. He could barely move from that spot. "I'll heal. Come on, we're nearly done."

By the long groan and even longer time it took for Puddles to haul himself up to stand, Erandur guessed they were both in similar states. Lightning was a true pain to fight against, and left them both drained and raw.

 

They staggered up the steps slowly, the shield protecting the Skull melting away as they approached.

A low buzzing sound seemed to vibrate in the back of Puddles' head, but he ignored it. Erandur huffed slightly at the top of the stairs, never breaking eye contact with the totem.

"I'll have to call on Lady Mara for her help in dispelling the Skull." He grunted. ' _Because I'm too weak',_ he thought to himself, but cast those thoughts aside. It would do him no good to be vulnerable in front of a Daedra.

"You do that." Puddles grunted back, standing to the side of the priest and the skull. "I'll keep an eye out for any more of your old friends."

  
Erandur grimaced a little. Guilt settled deeply in the pit of his gut and he felt awful. Yet he raised his aching arms a little and began his prayer. "I call upon you, Lady Mara! The Skull hungers. It yearns for memories and leaves nightmares in its wake. Grant me the power to break through this barrier and to send the Skull to the depths of Oblivion!" His magicka swilled around him and he closed his eyes with a look of intense focus.  The air crackled and felt heavy.

 

 

Puddles watched silently as magicka flowed between the priest and the Skull. His body ached, his eyes burning slightly. He hadn't expected those two acolytes to be so formidable. He let a little of his restoration magic flow through his hands, hoping to ease the smouldering ache the mages' lightning had left.

 

_He's deceiving you._

 

Puddles shook his head, sure he was hallucinating the soft, female voice.

_He's a traitor. He always has been and always will be a traitor. As soon as he destroys my Skull he will turn on you! Quickly! Kill him now!_

 

The thought of killing Erandur made his throat tighten. He had seen the man's past, lived it, heard his thoughts and felt his fears as if they were his very own. He had been a young man who had spent his short years crippled by a situation he had no control over, and couldn't handle the thought of his life not being his own. He ran, because it would take a fool not to run. He recognised that what he had done was selfish and had spent the rest of his long years seeking penance, teaching himself to heal and repair in an attempt to heal and repair himself. He was a good man, a worthy man. And laying a finger on the priest seemed wrong in every way. Killing Erandur wasn't justifiable. He had set out to rectify his wrongs and Puddles would not get in his way. Both he and Dawnstar deserved peace. After everything within this Temple, Puddles doubted Erandur would even think about betraying him.

 

_Kill him and claim the Skull for your own! Vaermina commands you!_

 

Despite everything, he trusted the priest far more than he could ever trust the Daedra. Puddles huffed, teeth baring themselves despite his helm blocking them from view.

 

_'Get fucked, Vaermina.'_

 

The buzzing in his ears rocketed into a loud screeching caw that almost had him slam his hands to his temples, but Puddles resisted, baring his teeth and biting back an audible snarl. It ebbed away, drip by drip, until his head felt a little bit like it was his own again. He still felt hazy and half-asleep, but things would clear, in time.

 

The Skull vanished, a shimmering mirage melting into the air. Erandur lowered his hands and he looked exhausted. There was a long moment of silence as the heavy feeling of magicka in the air dispelled. Erandur slowly turned and sank to sit on the stairs, his back to the warrior. Puddles frowned, but found himself somewhat pleased at the act of trust. He slowly moved to sit by the priests side.

"....Veren and Thorek were my friends." Erandur said simply, his voice dead.

When Puddles said nothing, Erandur continued.

"Perhaps Mara wishes to torment me. Perhaps I still require penance for my sins in this place." He wearily ran his ashen hands down his face. "Have I not endured enough, my Lady?"

"What choice did we have, friend?" Puddles murmured, looking over at him. "If we did not kill them, we would have been killed. Vaermina would have risen again. Not only would Dawnstars people continue to be tortured but it could have gotten much, much worse. All of their memories would have been taken, and then maybe even more. We've done the right thing, a good thing.  You, and the people of Dawnstar, you can all have peace now."

"I don't feel very peaceful." The priest turned his head away, wetness lacing the back of his voice heavily, as if he were about to let out a harsh sob. He took a few deep, shuddering breaths and calmed himself, gritting his teeth. He would no longer be so weak. "But you're right. Things had to be this way. I swore to right my wrongs, and...while I wish I could have spared them and saved more lives, things will be better now. It was worth the price."

"And now the Skull is gone." Puddles tried to keep his tone warm before he lightly patted the priests shoulder as he stood. "Come on, let's head back to your shrine. I imagine your Lady would like to give some words of praise, hm?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The walk back to the entryway was one of silence. Erandur looked like he was deep in thought but in truth his mind was blank and thick. His body desperately craved rest, his muscles in agony and his magicka depleted. The prayer to dispel the Skull took its toll - he felt much less powerful, like he would never be quite as strong again. But he let out a long breath. That was okay. The Skull was gone and Dawnstar was safe from Vaermina; his own strength didn't matter at all.

Puddles stood a little behind him, and Erandur became aware of the silence he had forced Puddles to endure.

"I can never, truly, thank you enough, my friend." Erandur didn't look at Puddles, gazing back down into the darkened hallways of the temple. He looked exhausted. "For everything."

"....What shall you do now? You've worked tirelessly towards this for so long, what shall you do now with your life?"

"I'll stay." The Dunmer answered simply. "I'll pray for forgiveness from Lady Mara. I'll pray to keep the temple safe. I'll stay here and ensure no one ever trespasses." Erandur gave a little shrug, turning around and picking a few fallen things up, a half-attempt at tidying his meagre shrine. He ran his worn hands across Maras shrine affectionately as a silent expression of gratitude. The echoing, overbearing silence filled him to the core before Puddles firm voice hissed into the air.

"No."

Erandur turned back around, looking into the carved eyes of the man's Dwarven-metal helm. "No?"

"No. I won't let you."

Erandur nearly scoffed. " _'Won't let me'_? What else am I meant to do, Puddles? This is all I have. You said it yourself, I've been working towards this for so long, this is my life, in this damnable fortress. I owe it to Lady Mara to work towards cleansing and caring for this place."

"You owe nothing, Erandur." Puddles took a few steps forward, his broad build seeming massive despite the echoing room. "You have prayed for your entire life for forgiveness. You have extinguished Vaermina. It's gone. Mara has blessed you with strength and hope and given you the ability to ensure this place is safe, surely She has forgiven you years ago. Do you truly want to stay in this pit?" He didn't let Erandur answer.  "Elves can live for incredible lengths of time. Is that what you want, to stay here for possibly centuries, surrounded by the haunting thoughts and nightmares Vaermina has plagued you with already? Even if this place has been cleansed of her, of _it_ , Casimirs memories will be here, in every waking moment. You won't be happy, and you deserve happiness, Erandur. No. I cannot let you stay."

The taller man, still hidden beneath his armour, paused as he slowly sank onto one of the half-destroyed pews. His voice was soft and low, as if he was truly hurt.  "How could I possibly leave knowing you will spend your long life here, alone? What kind of friend would I be to abandon you here? I cannot let you do this." The blank stare of his helm gazed up at the elf. "Come with me."

After a long moment, Erandur sat beside the man, the pew groaning slightly at their combined weight. "...Say I do come with you. What would become of this place? I cannot just leave it in this state."

"We won't leave it in this state. I say we take the dead and bury them, we clean the place and make it safe. Then we lock it up and toss the key into the ocean, perhaps. Make it so no Daedra-worshipper can ever crawl his sorry way in here and hurt anyone else again. The Skull is gone. We can let this place fall into sorry rubble and you never have to think of _it_ again."

The usage of 'we' made Erandur raise an eyebrow slightly and he couldn't help but smile a little at his companion.  "...We needn't bury them. They do not deserve an honourable burial."

"You care for Mara. I do not want to disrespect Arkay by leaving the bodies." Puddles had a point. Well, they were already on Maras good side, it would be foolish to try not to appease another of the Divines. "And they were your friends, once. It'd do no good to leave them here."

"....I'll start a fire outside if you drag them all out, ready to be burned, _Sera_."

"Gladly."

 

* * *

 

 

As the fire raged and smoke plumed into the night sky, Erandur breathed in heavy lungfuls of air, wisps of steam joining with the rising ash. As each orc and Daerdra-follower body was tossed onto the fire, something about Erandur felt cleansed. Nightcaller Temple would become empty, desolate, safe. A blot of stone on the horizon buried in snow.  He stood before the fire, watching the flames lick at the bones of one of the acolytes.  Purple robes soaked into the kindling and smouldered down. The heat warmed Erandurs dark skin down to his core, and for a moment he wondered if he had ever felt so warm.

Puddles knelt a little way away in the snow, idly patting down the corpses. The acolytes had barely anything on them besides a few rusted weapons and a septim or two. The orc warriors had perhaps one or two items of interest; a jewel or two, a few pieces of jewellery, a particularly nice looking war-hammer on one. Puddles kept them to one side as he dragged the dead out from the belly of the temple.

It felt like a long time before Erandur looked back over to him. Puddles said nothing, hunched over the mixed bodies as he patted them down. His armour gleamed in the firelight like liquid gold. Erandur frowned a little to himself - he had agreed to travel with this person, and yet he knew so little about him. He didn't know what he looked like, or where he was from, or why he was travelling. Perhaps he should remedy this.

Puddles could feel the elfs crimson eyes on him despite having his back towards the priest. He slowly tilted his head to peer back, the sightless eyes carved into his helm staring ahead vacantly.

"...You haven't told me your true name yet, friend."

"Yes I have." Puddles replied, somewhat gruffly.

"There is not a chance that I will believe that 'Puddles' is your real name."

A low sigh passed through the gaps in the man's helm, condensation mixing into the air. "Fine. That is the shortened version of my name. The full thing sounds incredibly foolish to most."

"More foolish than 'Puddles'?" Erandur could feel himself smiling. He had no right to mock names when he himself and discarded his own name so long ago, yet as the enormous helmet shook and a soft chuckle rang out from beneath the metal something about the harmless jab felt welcome. It was a wonderful sound.

"Much more foolish. It's a terrible name." Puddles stood, gripping the last of the orcs awkwardly and haphazardly tossing the body onto the spire of flame. He stretched a little, stiff from lifting and dragging and bending along with the days horrendous activities. Erandurs smile softened a little, despite the grotesque pile of bodies corroding on the fire. Puddles drew in another long breath as more vapour poured out of his helm. "Still, I suppose I could always change my name. You did, after all. Perhaps a different name would suit me."

"What would you call yourself?" Erandur said nothing about  the past. He assumed that Puddles had pieced everything together without him spelling it out - Puddles had seen first-hand his condemnation of this place, and yet still called him by his preferred name. The traveller had every right to scorn him, to degrade him, to bring up Casimir and all his wrong-doings. But he hadn't. Puddles, in all his eccentricities, was a good man.

"Hm," His head tilted, the glow of flames dancing across his armour as his arms folded at his chest. "I will have to think on it. Perhaps in the morning. It is late, and we still have much to do to seal away Nightcaller. We should rest awhile."

Erandur was tempted to outright laugh. Rest. It had been so long since he had rested. Perhaps now, with the Skull destroyed, he'd manage to sleep at least a little. Plumes of smoke rose to the stars and the moons shone wonderfully. Peace settled down into Erandurs bones.

 "Rest....sounds wonderful, _Serjo_."

 

* * *

 

 

They let the fire continue to burn down as they re-entered the Tower Of The Dawn. Puddles pushed some of the intact pews into the corners and Erandur gathered up shards of the destroyed ones to make a small fire in the centre of the vestibule.

"...You know, you have not told me why you helped me in the first place. You had nothing to gain from aiding me. You did not have to."

Puddles stood, turned and looked at the priest, mask unreadable as always. Yet something in his shoulders relaxed by a fraction. He took a few strides towards the elf, silent, as if contemplating his words. After a moment a hand came forward and cupped the amulet hanging from Erandurs neck. Puddles' thumb wiped over the blue jewel in the centre pensively.  Besides the soft crackle of the new formed fire, their room echoed in silence.

 

"You look like someone very dear to me."

Erandurs throat tightened a little. Someone dear. A wife, or lover, perhaps? The morose tone of Puddles' voice was distant. His thumb swept over the amulets gem and he inched closer to inspect it. Erandur could smell his scent from this distance; the smell of salt and blood and steel, with the cloying tang of the Miasma still lingering on his armour.  He could hear Puddles let out a long, slow breath.

"His did not look like this, though. His is different."

"He?"

Puddles was silent for some time, soft breaths escaping his helm. ".....I think it is a story for another time." He promptly stepped away, taking wide strides towards the door to the Temple. He sat stiffly, back facing Erandur.  "You should rest. I will keep watch and ensure no one enters."

Erandur swallowed and frowned. "Surely you should sleep also? You must be tired."

" _Sleep,_ Priest. I will watch over you."

Erandur let out a long sigh through his nose. The traveller seemed to have to many secrets, so much he wanted to say. He supposed he understood, they had only just met, after all. Erandur rolled out his bedroll and tossed his robes away, stripping to his small clothes. The fire was warm enough and as he slid under the furs he stretched a little. Perhaps sleep really was a good idea, if he could manage to grasp it. It had been years since he could recall the slightest amount of sleep.

He rolled onto his side, watching Puddles' back. The large man was stoic, silent, like a golden statue.

He wearily fell into a dreamless sleep, listening to the sombre breathing of the masked warrior. He was unsure, but he could have sworn he saw Puddles' helmet tilt towards his shrine and his soft voice echo in the hall as his eyes shut.

 

"Let him rest, dear Lady."

 

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
